The man at my front door
A chance encounter and new projects
It was around lunchtime when a man I hadn’t met before knocked on our front door. I peeked through the windows and could see his hair was long, curly, grey, and he stood leaning to one side toward my blooming muhly grass, alight with its purple feathered fall tips. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, simple and non-threatening, which is how a threat would present itself, I know.
My first guess was that he was one of those tree guys, all of whom require constant vigilance. We have several 300 year old champion live oaks on our property that have survived the complete Industrial Revolution and centuries of hurricanes only to be threatened by teenagers walking a neighborhood with discount fliers.
I opened the door, greeting the man with my guard up. Can I help you?
I see you like plants, he said to me in a gravely, disused voice, waving his arms and stubby workmen fingers across our wild front yard. His hands were free from fliers. His eyes drilled into mine, then batted away to the yard, then back to my face again.
Usually, if a stranger stops us in our front yard it is to exclaim, What a piece of property you have!, looking over their shoulder at the view of our lake, or to acknowledge the total transformation of our house renos—I’ve been looking at this house for years, they say, with some regret in their voice from not having bought it first. They don’t ever speak of actually living here. They certainly don’t notice my flowers.
So I listened carefully.
He wanted to tell me about the Mount Dora plant festival. November. The best thing you’ll ever see, he told me. They have so many things, you wouldn’t believe it. His eyes and shoulders lifted as he told me about the dreadlock croton he had discovered there. I see you have crotons, he said, connecting the dots for me, nodding excitedly. And I did have crotons—a few different kinds. I do like them! I was trying my hardest but it was difficult to be suspicious of him. As if sensing my internal dialogue he said aloud, I’m not lying, here’s the ad for it. Take a photo, he encouraged and held out his phone to me.
But I already knew he wasn’t lying. I took a photo simply to appease him. He had the honesty, and the awkwardness, of anyone who truly loves plants—who gets lost in their cycles, their different states of being. Who exults in their blooms, and accepts their declines. Who escapes into them from time to time.
My mind searched for connections. Why was he standing here? What was the meaning of all this?
He reminded me of the time my daughter saw a cut on my face and said to me, It tastes like metal. He reminded me of the guys I saw sitting on a boat, speeding across our lake into the sun setting over a mass of old pines. He reminded me of myself in high school, staying up late to make art in chalk and paint, oblivious to myself as my greatest impediment. He reminded me of my uncle. His keenness was pure and disarming.
Granted, this exchange was happening in the middle of the day, and my computer was calling me back to a Zoom meeting. Mount Dora, you say? November 4th? Maybe I’ll see you there.
Oh you won’t, he said in that annoying way that begs further conversation. I thought I’d liked this guy, but I rolled my eyes a little when he said that. I had to get back to work!
He then told me he had terminal bladder cancer, could only see out of one eye, had a messed up shoulder, et cetera; didn’t garden much anymore these days. I told him I’m so sorry to hear that, while thinking to myself, Here it comes...
But he went on to tell me about his mother; she was the reason he was so into plants. She lives with him, as mine will with me soon, and these days she sits mostly in their back room taking care of her plants. That light of a memory lingers momentarily on his face, and I smile back, acknowledge it. He says, Anyway, it was nice to meet you.
As he walked back to his truck I realized that in the three or four minutes we’d been talking, I’d come to care about this man. I hoped to see him in Mount Dora. I cared about his remaining time on Earth, the last half of his vision, the time he had left with the only mother he’d ever have. Can I help you? I’d asked.
No, I couldn’t help help him, not even in any small way. Yet I was moved by the fact that he would spend his time pitching me on the Mount Dora plant festival, simply because he thought from the appearance of my yard that I would love it.
So here I am, telling you about it too. Will I see you there? I hope you love it.
News & updates
Mark and the girls and I ran the Longwood Historic Society’s Monster Dash, and the girls placed 4th and 5th. They were bummed they didn’t get 2nd and 3rd like last year, but I still say, Well done! It inspired Mark and I to sign up for the Seminole Forest Half-Marathon in February. Join me there too, if you like; I wouldn’t mind a training buddy.
I’ve been experimenting on Instagram and TikTok. Maybe things are getting a little weird? I’ve been enjoying it—making stuff from your phone has become way easier and more fun since I last tried in earnest.
And last but not least, I’m committing myself to NaNoWriMo this year (writing 50,000 words next month). I feel the need to catch up on my novel writing initiative in January, and I also think it will help get me through the drudgery of November. Join me! Here’s my profile if you want to follow along.
I hope you all are well. Thanks for reading!
xo,
cassie